


The rubber band

by i_gaze_at_scully



Series: Movie night [4]
Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-22
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-09-06 20:23:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16839760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/i_gaze_at_scully/pseuds/i_gaze_at_scully
Summary: Pusher post-ep





	The rubber band

**Author's Note:**

> Content warnings for suicide mention (re: Mulder’s struggle with Modell) and OCD/intrusive thoughts. 
> 
> MSR, some angst, hurt/comfort.

Mulder studied psychology at Oxford. He understands the neurobiology of compulsion. The basal ganglia circuitry imbalance that causes it in patients with Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder. How the caudate nucleus should (but doesn’t) function as a circuit breaker before the behavior becomes involuntary, unstoppable. How thoughts on loop can become overpowering and you are suddenly not the master of your own mind.

Yesterday, Modell became the master of his. He snuck in and rewired Mulder’s neural pathways, busting the circuit breaker and overloading his system until _shoot the little spy, shoot the little spy, shoot the little spy_ was looping, looping, looping. His brain pulled his muscles like a puppet until his fingers clenched with such force he thought he’d break a bone. How could his hands move without his permission? How could he play tug-of-war with his own body? Shoot, _don’t shoot_. He’d studied the brain, but now he truly understood. Modell’s voice in his head had grown louder and louder, stronger and stronger. It took all his willpower to fight it, to drown out the cacophony in his mind, to scream back louder. He fought, hard, but he lost. He lost control, and he almost lost Scully.

_Shoot the little spy_.

He still sees the single tear on her cheek, her eyes wide and wet. She trusted him. In that moment, she knew he wouldn’t shoot her. She believed in him. And he lost. He let her down. 

He downed the rest of his scotch, let it burn. He hated the taste, hated the sting. It was his father’s drink: scotch neat. _You’re not a man till you can appreciate a good single malt, Fox_ , he’d said before Mulder had left for Oxford. Mulder never liked it, never manned up. He pours himself another. 

The air had hung heavy between he and Scully on their drive home from Fairfax Mercy Hospital. He had insisted on driving, and she let him. 

“Mulder, I want you to know that I don’t blame–”  
  
“Don’t, Scully.” He had tasted acid on his tongue as he cut her off. He couldn’t hear her. She didn’t speak again for the rest of the ride.   
  
He hasn’t heard from her all day today. He supposed he deserves that. He’s playing tug-of-war in his brain again. He needs to be near her, to know she was safe. But he knows he needs to be as far away as possible, to ensure she was safe. The paradox stretches him in both directions like a rubber band poised to snap.  
  
She shows up at his door around dinner time with a six pack and a VHS. He lets her in somberly, glass in hand, watching as her keen eyes flit between the glass, his 5 o’clock shadow, and the room behind him.  
  
“It’s dark in here,” she states plainly. He shrugs in response.   
  
“Scully, I’m not sure I’m in the mood for a–”  
  
“I need this.” She cuts him off, pins him with a look. He studies her face and notices that her eyes are red and puffy; she’s been crying. He takes the six pack from her hand and nods.   
  
“What are you drinking?” She asks before he can open a beer.   
  
“Glen Grant. It’s awful. You want some?”  
  
She gives a small smile. “My father’s drink.” She takes the bottle and eyes it apprehensively. He doesn’t judge her when she takes a swing.  
  
“What movie?” It’s almost like normal. Almost.  
  
Scully offers the case, and Mulder chuckles dryly.  
  
“ _Airplane!_?”  
  
She shrugs. “I figured we could use something a little lighter tonight.”  
  
Mulder motions to the couch with a nod, bringing the six pack and the Glen Grant.  
  
It’s quiet save for the bubbling of the fish tank and the VCR spinning, spinning, spinning the film.  
  
“Rules?” Mulder asks.  
  
Scully prattles a few off and he realizes he hasn’t seen this movie in years.  
  
“Sounds good to me.” Mulder suddenly remembers how Scully took his hand in the hospital and how it simultaneously sent a jolt through his system and soothed his racing mind. She let go and walked away and he had panicked for a moment, wondering if she’d keep walking, walking, walking, out of his life forever. He takes a swig of his beer.  
  
Ninety minutes later, the laughter subsides and the six pack is gone.  
  
“We really need to start buying more than one six pack, Scully.” He reaches for the scotch.  
  
“Or go easier on the rules,” she says.  
  
It’s quiet again. His mind is still taut. He drums his fingers against his thigh.  
  
“Stay,” he half begs, half demands out of the blue. He chides himself for how desperately he needs her to stay when he knows it’s the last place she should be. She hesitates before responding and there’s a knot in his stomach.  
  
“I don’t blame you, Mulder.” She had started to say this in the car, and he had shut her down. He swallows his fears and waits for more.  
  
“I was so scared,” she whispers.  
  
His heart drops like a rock. He looks over at her and sees her shaky hands, the way she’s staring intently down at her empty beer bottle. It is a physical pain, not being able to take her hand right now. He won’t though. He looks down at his own hands, his pointer finger, the finger that would have ended her life. These are not comforting hands.  
  
“You held a gun to your temple and pulled the trigger. You, you could have died, you almost died.” The words won’t come and she goes quiet. Her hair falls in her face as she lowers her head.  
  
She’s in pain, because of him, and not because he almost kil—  
  
He can’t even finish the thought. A white hot rage burns through him and takes hold. He slams the bottle down and stands abruptly. She jumps and he laces his fingers behind his head.  
  
“Scully I almost _shot_ you. I had a gun trained right between your eyes—”  
  
“Mulder, no—”  
  
“—and I felt my finger closing on the trigger and I _didn’t stop it_. I almost lost you, Scully. I never would’ve forgiven myself and he knew it, the fucking bastard knew it. I never…” He recognizes that he is nearly screaming. He trails off, steels himself, makes a choice. He lowers his voice, deadly serious now.  
“You should go. You should walk away and never look back. If I can’t keep you safe…”  
  
She stands with a fire in her eyes. He holds her gaze even though he’s sure he can’t handle the intensity.  
  
“Dammit, Mulder! It’s not your job to protect me. I chose this life and I wouldn’t change that. I won’t.”  
  
“You should.” His voice is cold. He breaks her gaze and turns from her. She grabs his arm and turns him back roughly, brings her hands up to his shoulder and holds him steady. She softens her gaze, drops her voice in timbre but not in volume, not in strength.  
  
“No. I am not leaving.”  
  
He swallows a lump. He is overcome by the tenderness in her face, by her touch, by her constancy. The rubber band snaps, the loop breaks. He can hate himself later; right now he allows himself, just for the moment, to be grateful instead of terrified.  
  
He knows she knows this—he can see the relief on her face. He pulls her into a hug, rests his cheek against her head, breathes her in.

  
She stays.

**Author's Note:**

> I actually suffer from clinical OCD myself. Only in writing this fic did I make the connection between Modell’s power and my disorder. The reminder wasn’t easy to swallow, but it made me really sympathize with Mulder (and all Modell’s victims) and deepened my love for the episode (which was already top 3 for me).


End file.
